


A Different Ocean

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Homesickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8751694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Stevie sits in the kitchen of his new house in Los Angeles, boxes everywhere, and contemplates the ocean. He gets a package in the mail from home.





	

The new house was big, with tall glass windows filling the rooms with golden sunshine. They could see the ocean from behind. If he didn’t think too much about it, Stevie could pretend it was the same ocean that lapped at the shores of Liverpool, the same ocean that had kissed his feet as they’d dangled from the pier when he was young.

 

But Stevie always thought too much. And so he knew this ocean was not the same one that had taught him how to swim, was not the same one he and Paul had splashed in as children, or the same one he and Carra and Michael had taken their kids to on those rare warm summer afternoons.

At some point, that ocean had become this one, different, wilder. He wonders if he is different here too, from the man he’d been in Liverpool. Had he passed that mystical point where Atlantic became Pacific as he’d flown over from Liverpool to LA, and in so doing, become a different Steven Gerrard?

He didn’t know, though he returned to the thought now and again.

But there was work to be done, boxes to be unpacked, and the girls’ clothes needed to be put away. So Stevie rolled up his sleeves (metaphorically—he was wearing a t-shirt, after all), and got to work.

A couple hours later, he was enjoying a well-earned break, when the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone yet, though James Corden had promised to come by later and take the family to dinner. He considered Robbie, thought maybe he’d come by to check on him, see if he needed anything. That’s what Stevie would do when new boys arrived in Liverpool, though he usually gave them a few days to get settled, and a phone call ahead to let them know…

The bell rang again, and Stevie realized that the fastest way to figure out who was behind it was to open the door, so that’s what he did.

It was a lanky FedEx employee, who announced in a bored voice, complete with glaring California accent (quite irritating to Scouse ears, though he’d get used to it soon enough) that there was a “Package for Steven Gerrard?” His name sounded different, coming from American lips, and he wondered if his name was different here because _he_ was different here.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Stevie said, holding one arm out for the small textbook-sized box, and his right hand to sign for it.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, going to close the door.

“Where you from, man, England?”

“Yeah, Liverpool.” His voice caresses the word, holding it and rocking it in his mouth, the way he had rocked Lourdes to sleep those first few days after she was born, what had felt like yesterday but was actually years ago.

“Well, welcome to America then, bro.”

“Thanks very much.” Stevie said with a smile, closing the door.

He went into the kitchen and dug out the scissors he’d been using to open boxes. He was gentle with the package, and opening it, found a 2015/16 Liverpool home shirt. Turning it over in hands that were trembling slightly (though he’d die sooner than admitting that to anyone else), he unfolded it, hands gentle. His name was emblazoned on the back, with the number eight below it.

He wanted it. He wanted it _now_ , wanted to feel it on the skin of his back, wanted to reach his hands back and trace the letters of his name, in a pale imitation of that stupid celebration he’d done in the 2006 FA Cup Final– _the Gerrard Final–_ they called it now, he thought with a rueful smile.

But he’d left Liverpool behind, he’d lost the right to the shirt, and so he just clasped it in his hands, feeling the smooth fabric on his fingers, large and strong and callused from years of lifting weights.

He ran his hands over the fabric, gazing at the shirt, sharp eyes picking up each detail in the same way that he picked out the best pass to play, the one that would lead to a goal or a corner or an assist. It was slightly different than last year’s kit—they made little changes every year. The trim was different, there were subtle new lines in the fabric that only showed when the sunlight hit it at the right angle. On the back of the neck, just beneath the knit collar, there were two torches around the number ninety-six. Steve swallowed hard, saw a young blond face, blurred and faded by time but kept alive by painful memories, and ignored the stinging in his eyes, as he had long ignored the aches in his muscles and the painful yearning in his heart for dreams gone by.

As he pressed his hands over the fabric, soft like his little girls’ skin, he pulled it from the box, and a piece of paper covered in flowing script fluttered to the ground.

_Dear Stevie,_

_Wear the shirt. It doesn’t matter who’s paying your salary now. You will be Liverpool’s, as long as you want to be. And one day, when you come back, the rest of the world will see it, too. We don’t have a new number eight yet, and honestly, I don’t see anyone wanting to pick it up anytime soon—what size shoes do you wear, mate? They must be massive—it’ll be awhile before anyone’s willing to step into them, let alone walk a mile._

_And on a personal level? Thank you, for the time you have given this club and this team. Thank you for the years that we played together—you made me a better player and a better man. Thank you for the kindness, the leadership, and the unfailing belief you had in me and every player you shared a dressing room with. No matter where I go, or who I play for, even if I do wear a different kit someday, you will always be my captain. I don’t want to be a cliché, but you must know, surely, that You’ll Never Walk Alone, Stevie. Not while I’m around, at least._

_Best of luck in LA. I hope the girls enjoy the beach and the shopping and the new city! I know you’ll be wonderful for the Galaxy—our loss is their gain (so they better be grateful!)._

_Yours respectfully,_

_Lucas_

A little way beneath Lucas’ signature, there was a paragraph written in a child’s hand, letters shaky and inconsistent, with a few misspelled words crossed out and corrected.

_Hi Uncle Stevie!_

_Good luck in Los ~~Angels~~ Angeles, Uncle Stevie! I’m going to miss you so much! But Daddy said you might come visit, around Christmas maybe? And you’ll do great in America—you’ll be the ~~britest~~ brightest star in the Galaxy!_

_(I told Daddy that joke—he didn’t laugh that much. I thought you would ~~appresheeate~~ appreciate it more.)._

_Love,_

_Pedro_

Even beneath that, there was a crooked little pink heart. The picture was captioned in Lucas’ neat flowing penmanship: _Valentina sends her love, too, Uncle Stevie!_

There were two barstools in the kitchen, amongst all the boxes. He sat himself down in one heavily and tried not to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> sad angsty Stevie :/ But he's home now, so everything's okay! :D


End file.
